Chapter Text
---
**8:00 PM**
Everything was unraveling before her—her charting, her patients, Langdon, the new attending, and now Garcia pulling a rain check. Why couldn't anything ever be easy?
*You want to talk about this Langdon shit again? Call a therapist.*
Yeah, right. Like therapy would solve all her problems and pent-up frustrations in a day. She'd been to therapy, and it helped to some degree, but she'd hear the same old words she'd heard countless times before. "It isn't your fault." It really wasn't. So why did it feel like it was? Why did it seem like she was in the wrong for blowing the whistle on something that could blow up in the entire ED's face? They were mandated reporters, yet for the hospital's golden boy, reporting seemed to be frowned upon. It was making her tiny little compartmentalized memories come back to life.
*You don't know what I've been through. My wife almost divorced me.*
And she almost lost everything on her first day. It wasn't fair that no consequences fell upon the golden boy. A mere ten months in rehab and a slap on the wrist before warm, welcoming arms enveloped him back into the department. Meanwhile, she'd been here, fighting her way through the whispers, crawling her way through doctors' passive aggression, convincing herself it was all okay.
After all, she was used to being the pariah for telling the truth. The only difference? No one had died. Yet.
She wondered if anything was worth it at this point. After all, she'd always be the snarky, bitchy intern who was too eager for their own good. Too cocky for The Pitt. Too emotional for Yolanda. Really, what was the point?
Trinity stared at the scalpel for a while, pondering her next move. Should she be doing this? It had been so long since she last felt the need to hurt herself. Not since she blew the whistle on their coach. Not since her best friend took her own life. Not since she thought of following her.
She pockets it instead, deciding to think about it later. She'd be alone anyway—Garcia was bailing on their plans. She'd have more time to think then.
---
**9:00 PM**
Trinity finally felt the weight of the day double at this point. She was done with her charts, at least. She couldn't wait to get back to the apartment, shower, and let go.
"Doctor Santos."
Great. What did Robo-Doc want this time?
"What's up, Doc?"
"I trust you've finished your charts?" Of course she was still on her about her charts.
"Yup. Done and ready for billing." She jokes, and Baran just smiles at that. Trinity would never admit it to anyone, but she does find the new attending's smile almost... disarming. It lacked the sharp edges she was used to.
"Good. Forgive me if this is too forward, but would you mind telling me your beef with Dr. Langdon?"
And Trinity's face pales.
"Nothing to say. Water under the bridge." She shrugs it off, like she always does. Baran seems to clock the almost non-answer and tilts her head, something flickering in her eyes—not quite amusement, but close.
"Dr. Robby tells me you reported him for stealing patient medications."
"Yup. Reported him, he went to rehab, and now he's back." Trinity keeps her voice flat, mechanical. "Savior of Pittfest. Golden boy returns. Is there a question in there, or are we just doing story time?"
Baran's smile doesn't waver. "I'm trying to understand the dynamics of my team, Dr. Santos. You seem... isolated."
"Isolated?" Trinity barks out a laugh. "I'm not isolated. I'm focused. There's a difference." She starts gathering her things—stethoscope, water bottle, the pen she always loses. "Look, Dr. Baran, I appreciate the whole 'empathetic' act, but I'm fine. Charting's done, patients are stable, and I'm clocking out before Dana finds another patient for me."
She turns to leave, but Baran's voice stops her.
"He diluted meds with saline. You were right to report him."
Trinity freezes, hand on the doorframe. The validation feels foreign, almost uncomfortable—like a language she studied once but never became fluent in. She doesn't turn around.
"Yeah, well, tell that to everyone else." Her voice comes out smaller than she intended. "Tell that to the nurses who stop talking when I walk by. Tell that to the residents who'd rather let a patient crash than take a patient with me" She finally looks back, and something in her expression must give her away because Baran's face softens.
"You're not wrong, Dr. Santos. You're just... early."
"Early?"
"In medicine, timing is everything. You were right, but you were also new. People don't like being shown their blind spots by someone who just arrived." Baran stands, smoothing her white coat. "I'm not saying it's fair. I'm saying it's human."
Trinity swallows. The scalpel in her pocket suddenly feels heavier.
"Is that all?" She needs to leave. Needs air. Needs to not be seen right now.
Baran studies her for a moment too long. "You know, Dr. Robby also mentioned you grew up in competitive sports."
"Gymnastics. What about it?"
"High-pressure environment. Coaches with absolute authority. Clear hierarchies." Baran steps closer, not threatening, but deliberate. "You learned to survive by being the best. But medicine isn't a medal ceremony, Dr. Santos."
Trinity's jaw tightens. "With all due respect, Dr. Baran, you don't know me."
"You're right. I don't." Baran holds her gaze. "But I know that look. I've seen it in veterans, in burnout cases, in people who think their only value is what they can prove under pressure." She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a business card. "This isn't a therapist. It’s my number, if you ever feel like talking, you can reach me here."
Trinity stares at the card like it might bite her.
"I don't need—"
"Everyone needs something, Dr. Santos. Even if it's just knowing they're not the only one who sees the hypocrisy." Baran presses the card into Trinity's palm. "Your secret's safe with me. All of them."
Something cracks in Trinity's chest—a hairline fracture in the armor she's worn so long she's forgotten it wasn't skin. She closes her fingers around the card.
"Why?" she asks, and hates how vulnerable it sounds.
Baran is already turning back to her desk. "Because we all need a little help sometimes… And because—" she glances back, something sharp and knowing in her eyes, "—I don't like golden boys either."
Trinity stands in the doorway for three full seconds after Baran walks away, well isn’t that interesting.
**11:00 PM**
Back in the apartment Trinity sits in her bath, willing herself to shake the stress of everything away. She felt disgusting, in more ways than one. Being a glorified stress squeeze toy would do that to a girl. Fuck, how did she fall so low? How did she let herself become whatever this is.
She brings her knees closer and rests her chin and recounts Yolanda’s words, Langdon’s words, Robby’s words and it makes her spiral even further. Why couldn’t Yolanda just listen to her? Why can’t Langdon leave her alone and why did Robby have to leave?
Without Robby she had no one, no one on her side. No one to count on with this Langdon bullshit. And that frustrates Trinity even more.
She’s drowning now, spiralling into her old self. Is this how her best friend felt back then? Is this why she did what she did?
Trinity couldn’t take it anymore; she needed to quiet her thoughts. She moved mechanically, too tired to fight herself, too tired to struggle.
She gets up and digs through her laundry and finds the scalpel in her scrub pants. She opens the pack, and runs her finger through the cold surface of the blade, before sitting down on her cold tiled floor. It’s been a while. She starts on her thighs, where no one can see, the initial cut starts bleeding but it isn’t enough. There’s still too much noise in her head.
*Langdon’s here to stay, so put on your big girl panties and deal with it*
Another line on her thigh, this time deeper as more red seeps through her pale white skin and still that didn’t quiet the noise.
*Dr. Santos, and I say Doctor in such a fashion to draw attention to the ridiculous fact that you have enjoyed that title for what? 90 days?*
The noise was getting louder, and her thighs no longer helped quiet her thoughts. She needed more, more pain, more red, more than what her thighs could give her.
What about her wrist? Her best friend always liked holding Trinity’s wrist, saying it was more intimate than holding her hand. That feeling Trinity's pulse meant she was the closest to Trinity’s heart, and she was right, because she did hold Trinity’s heart.
*Stupid or arrogant, you need to realize that you are a beginner, which means your job is to shut up, listen and learn because so far today the only thing you are successful at is proving repeatedly that you know nothing*
She sliced once, perpendicular to her arm, deep enough to hurt, deep enough to make the incessant noise in her head become a comforting buzz. This was what she wanted, the buzzing in her ears. She gets up, red dripping everywhere as she sits herself back into the tub, needing the cold to settle whatever’s left of the noise.
She stares up at the light, and she finally feels the weight being lifted off of her, finally feels lighter, and for the first time in what felt like months, she could finally let go, letting herself drift off to sleep.